


What You Carry

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:11:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are on their way to investigate a haunting when they get a distress call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Carry

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 5x14. For the record, I wrote most of this before 6.18 aired, and got Kripked Gambled on one detail. The rest of it was influenced by the final run of eps of season 6, although it's set in season 5. There's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to Fringe. Thank you to smilla02 for the beta read.

They could've stopped to eat instead of getting take-out. Sam tried to suggest it but Dean seemed eager to get to the hunt and Sam hadn't argued. He literally bit his tongue to avoid it, because Dean seemed too worn out to be driving for hours through the night. However, it was Dean intent on something other than anxiously hovering over Sam, or visibly carrying the weight of Lucifer and Michael's circling on his shoulders, and so Sam let it go.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Dean took the burger Sam handed him, eyes on the highway that rolled from the darkness ahead of them.

"Mustard or ketchup?" Sam asked. As if it mattered, but it was always a relief when they fell into the routine of being on the road, debating which route to take, Sam tracing lines on a map with his finger, the scent of fast food filling the Impala.

"Both," Dean said.

Sam handed Dean a few packets and then rummaged in the bag again for his own dinner. The smell of fries curled through the Impala while the soft edges of the quiet settled around them. It was nothing new, finding the stretches of travel time from point A to point B neutral zones of peace or harmless bickering. Unsettled and remote silences had gotten too frequent in the past few years. Sam leaned back, inhaled the scent of greasy food, and enjoyed the fact that tonight it was an easy quiet. It was fine with Sam if the drive to Vermont could take about eight hours longer.

Multiple spirits were tearing up a high school, and he and Dean had hashed out the possible case over breakfast two days ago, printouts of the obits and the news clippings Sam had found spread out on the wobbly diner table. Dean had dipped his bacon into the swirl of fake maple syrup on his plate, while Sam leaned forward a little as he made his arguments, and Dean poked holes in them.

This was an old dance – Sam knew Dean did it not because he didn't believe it was a case, but because he enjoyed watching Sam jump through verbal hoops of fire to make his point. Sam had caught the way Dean's eyes lit up with each new piece of evidence.

It was a relief to be doing this, to be working on facts rather than trying to figure out how to keep his own brain and blood from destroying him.

Dean had let Sam picked the aliases, Detective Joyce and Detective Plunkett, and only muttered once about Sam's weird-ass musical tastes.

* * *

Fighting in a human body of bone and blood and sinew was different and yet not that different from fighting in his true form. Castiel had to remember the length of his arms, the weight of his body, and that he was much, much slower than what he was accustomed to. This was not such a disadvantage as it might've been, as his brethren had the same problem. They all longed for the freedom and swiftness of their true selves.

Yet the dance of it was the same, twisting his body, anticipating his opponent, his blade a solid representation of the weapon he normally used. He knew his existence might end, and Castiel had never identified that as fear in himself until he'd met Dean Winchester, until he'd borrowed Jimmy Novak's body. It was worse now that Jimmy's soul had left.

Castiel didn't plead with them, didn't try to argue them over to his side. They wouldn't listen, Afriel and Dalquiel and Tahariel, although sometimes he thought Tabris might, and Nahaliel never.

It was because they tried to kill him that he knew Zachariah had sent them, not Lucifer.

They had caught him in a warehouse, final slanted rays of sunlight falling dirty from the high windows; it reminded him of heaven. Castiel dodged the first blow from Dalquiel, spun, feinted to the left to make Tabris lunge, and when she did, he grabbed her and used her blade to kill Tahariel who was sneaking up behind him.

Tahariel went in a white flare of grace. Castiel didn't look at the burnt-out wings on the floor. Afriel's blade stung across his body -- he didn't jump back fast enough, and the wound was hot, like his human skin held too close to flame. It slowed him, but he killed Dalquiel, didn't even pause to watch him go. He kept moving but Nahaliel's blade caught him next. Pain curled through him as he plunged his blade into Nahaliel, more vicious than he meant to be. He stumbled back in the light of Nahaliel's dying, pressed his palm against the blood oozing from his own body, and rapidly drew the sigil on the floor.

He landed in a field in a different time zone, the moon a cold disk above him. Funny how he once thought it was insignificant, one tiny celestial body among trillions. Castiel sank to his knees, the heat of the wounds louder than his own thoughts.

Castiel pulled his phone from his coat, nearly dropping it before he hit the first number on the phone's list, one of only two. His blood smeared on the keypad.

* * *

The double yellow line burned bright in the glow of headlights, almost hypnotic. Dean ate his burger, other hand loose on the wheel, while Sam slouched, munching the last of his fries. This was right, this was where they should be, not caught up in some bullshit apocalypse with bossy-pants angels whispering in their dreams.

His cell went off. Crap. Dean put the burger down on the bench beside him and looked at the caller ID and no, he didn't feel a weird little thump in his chest.

"Cas?" Dean said, and Sam sat up, still chewing.

"Where are you?" Castiel's voice sounded a little rougher than usual, as if he was out of breath.

"Going east on 29, few miles past Utica. What's...Cas? Hello?" Jesus H. Christ. Angels. So friggin' rude.

"Dean!" Sam snapped a warning.

The figure appeared on the side of the road up ahead, pale like a ghost in his trenchcoat, white shirt, smudge of dark hair.

Dean slowed abruptly, gripping the wheel with both hands now. The Impala'd never had seatbelts. _Shit_ , thank you, Sam had great reflexes, putting both hands against the dashboard as Dean stopped a little too fast. His cheeseburger slid to the floor

At least Cas'd had the sense not to appear in the middle of the road. Dean wouldn't put it past him, though. Angels and demons, both of them liked the melodramatic.

The Impala stopped a few yards from Castiel, who moved slowly off the road shoulder into the beam of the headlights. He looked otherworldly just then -- sometimes Castiel didn't; sometimes he seemed unassuming, and then in a blink, he'd move in a certain way or do a thing and Dean would see it, remember what Castiel was.

There were small rips and tears in the shoulder and sleeves of Castiel's trenchcoat. He kept his head bowed, staying too still for too long, then leaned forward to brace himself on the car, fingers splayed against the dark hood as if he'd fall over otherwise.

"Dean, I think he's--"

But Dean already had his hand on the door handle, fumbled with it, got it open and was out into the chilly-assed night. On the other side, Sam also got out, a few steps behind Dean.

"Hey." Dean went over to stand next to Cas, seeing now the tremble and tension in his arms as he leaned. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breath rising in clouds. As Dean spoke Castiel's eyes snapped open, expression a mix of angry and desperate, and when his gaze found Dean's face, it turned into relief. It threw Dean because he'd never have expected that -- Cas looking at him as if he was a rope in a storm. "Hey, Cas, you okay?" His fingers closed around Castiel's arm. The fabric of his coat was cool as the air, muscles beneath tense. Castiel usually radiated heat, but he didn't right then.

"Hello Dean, Sam," Castiel nodded, his voice as prim as if they were colleagues meeting in a board room, voice only a little more worn than usual as Sam's big hand closed over Castiel's shoulder. "I'll be fine, given time to recover." He stood up straight, and Dean saw the way he stifled a wince. "That's why I'm here. I need your help."

"Shoot," Dean said. Asking for help wasn't Castiel's way. Showing up with a directive, or a grim portent, or a piece of depressing information, that was his way.

Castiel's eyes widened a little at the word and he looked puzzled.

"He means yes, whatever you need," Sam said.

Cas nodded. "I'll explain shortly, but we can't stay here. We have to go, before they find me again. Now."

His hands lifted towards Dean and Sam. Two fingers pressed firm against Dean's forehead.

* * *

The world seemed to slide sideways, to the sound of the beat of wings. Sam blinked against the vertigo. They weren't on that highway any longer, they were in a barn who-knows-where. The air smelled of old dry hay. The low wooden stalls appeared to be empty, cobwebs shining a little in the light of the moon that came in through an opening in the wall high above them. The place looked as if it might fall over if they breathed too hard.

"I prepared this place ahead of time," Castiel said, leaning against Dean, and Sam saw Dean tighten his grip on Castiel's arm. "The sigils on the wall hide this place from angels unless they already know it's here."

Castiel's knees gave and Dean definitely seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright now.

"Cas, maybe you should, y'know, sit down or something," Sam said, moving closer, reaching out a hand.

"No, I--"

Dean yanked Castiel's coat open further, revealing his white shirt stained with something dark. While Dean held Castiel up, Sam pulled out his penlight, although they almost didn't need it, the moon was so bright.

Long, thin precise cuts shredded the front of Castiel's shirt, down through Cas's undershirt to expose the skin. Blood stained the white fabric.

"Cas, what the --" Dean tugged Castiel's shirt free, lifting up the layers of clothing.

Castiel endured the examination with an air of great stoicism, while Sam noted how his jaw tightened. It wasn't that Sam believed Castiel couldn't be hurt -- they'd seen him bleeding and unconscious and he'd once been blown to bits by an archangel -- but every time something like that happened to Cas, Sam felt his world realign again. He had to fight off a familiar slow burn of anger along with the repeated reminder that even Castiel was not invulnerable, which somehow seemed massively unfair.

Gashes in Castiel's skin matched the slices in his clothes, thin lines oozing blood, and something else. Sam moved closer, thinking at first it was the shine of moonlight, but it wasn't.

"What the...oh, this is not good." Sam didn't want to be right about what he thought that was. "Not good."

"What?" Dean snapped. His gaze slid down to Castiel's torso again and then Dean swallowed hard. "Cas, you're bleeding...glowy...stuff."

"It's grace," Castiel said, and he was pretty much the only calm one, Sam thought, since Dean suddenly looked like he might puke and Sam was feeling that lead weight that he'd hated since he was old enough to understand what it'd meant when Dad came home bloodied or with something broken. "The cuts will heal but it takes time. If you treat the wounds, it will help speed things along," Castiel told them.

"Uh. We need a first aid kit. Gauze, antiseptic, whiskey, needle, thread--" Sam rattled off the list, taking refuge in familiar procedures and lists.

Castiel vanished, leaving Dean's fingers awkwardly grasping at air, and Sam recognized the blankness that fell over Dean's face, the furious twitch of his jaw -- that was Dean holding off full-blown panic. Castiel was back seconds later, thrusting the first aid kit from the Impala into Dean's hands.

"Shouldn't you be able to heal yourself?" Dean snapped, as if it was a personal outrage Cas hadn't taken care of it already. "Even if you can't do the magic healing hands on anyone else?" Castiel shook his head, and Dean sighed. "Fine, sit your feathery butt down."

As Castiel settled on the floor of the barn, trenchcoat spread around him, Dean knelt in front of him, the first aid kit open by his boot. Sam crouched next to Dean, and whether he felt he needed to steady his brother, or the wounded angel, Sam wasn't sure. The two were going to unravel before his eyes if Sam didn't do something; Dean was as pale as Castiel.

"If these were human-made wounds, yes." Castiel sucked in a breath between his teeth as Dean swiped the gauze and antiseptic along the top cut. "But these were made by angel blades."

Dean dabbed again at one of the long slashes and Castiel's body jerked away from him, an involuntary twitch. "Quit squirming."

"Hold still, Cas, okay?" Sam said, as gently as he could.

After that, Castiel went quiet, mouth closed in a tight line.

Dean kept on cleaning the cuts, gauze soaking up blood, and then got out the needle and thread. Stitching wounds was about as commonplace as haircuts in their family, and Sam had watched Dean stitch up him and Dad, Bobby, even strangers, over and over, but Dean couldn't seem to thread the needle, and then his fingers were clumsy. He stopped, closed and opened his fist, started again, fingers of his other hand digging into Castiel's shoulder.

Finally Sam couldn't bear to watch any more. He touched the back of Dean's hand. Dean looked surprised at first, then released the needle and thread as Sam took them from him.

Sam finished the job, fingers working steadily, his head bowed towards Castiel's chest while Castiel gazed at the far wall of the barn.

* * *

The barn was a simple structure, the wood gone rotten, yet it seemed fitting as a place to hide. Castiel chose it because it was familiar, similar to the building where he had first appeared to Dean in his human vessel.

Fighting against his own brothers and sisters, and with Zachariah after Dean, and Lucifer after Sam, Castiel knew he needed to rely on more than just his combat skills. He'd found this place and covered it in sigils soon after rescuing Dean and Sam from Zachariah in the storage locker. Castiel had six other hiding places ready like this one.

He didn't watch Sam do his work with the needle, barely felt the sting of it, although Sam kept glancing at him anxiously. Castiel didn't want to tell him it was nothing – he'd seen how the Winchesters did that, and didn't believe it from each other. The fact that it was true coming from Castiel might not matter; he'd caused them enough trouble and distress.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Castiel wondered when he'd started to associate Dean and Sam with safety. They were only human, he was an angel – it was his job to look after them. It was a long while since he'd abandoned his initial assertion that he was not there to perch on Dean's shoulder. Fumbling and thick-headed and misguided as the Winchesters were, they were also the best hope Castiel could see for saving this vulnerable world, and his worry about them was no longer an alien, unaccustomed pulse in his mind.

They were far too vulnerable, yet here he was, taking sanctuary with them.

He watched Dean pace, the coiled, pent-up energy radiating off him. Perhaps he was annoyed and feeling restless at being delayed here. Dean stopped and rubbed his hand across his chin, the line of his shoulders taut yet vulnerable. There were no new visible injuries on him since the last time Castiel had seen him, but he seemed worn down even further. Letting himself lean into Dean's tight grasp, being that near him, had lessened the sense that Dean might be in danger of fading to transparency, lost from Castiel's reach forever. The desperation Castiel had heard in him with Sam locked in the panic room was still there, pushed down.

Castiel should've been stronger than this – he shouldn't have allowed the other angels to find him or get close enough to injure him. He was a better fighter than that, should've dodged their blades faster.

He opened his mouth, wanting to apologize, but his tiredness kept him silent -- his relief. Perhaps if he apologized, it would seem as if he were ungrateful for what Sam and Dean were offering him, as if he didn't want their help. Perhaps he didn't, he didn't need it -- not really -- and yet if he didn't, why was he there?

The top of Sam's head leaned towards Castiel's chest as his fingers moved quickly, using force but gently, closing up Castiel's human skin. Castiel used to fear Sam – now he found that idea almost amusing. Tainted Sam might be, but also eager to protect, to do what was right, quick to offer sympathy.

He wondered why Dean couldn't or wouldn't do this task himself – Dean was every bit as experienced in sewing up human wounds as his brother.

* * *

While Sam worked, Dean got up and walked in a circle around Sam and Cas, watching the darkness of the barn, the spaces beyond the reach of the moonlight. A hum of unease crawled under his skin. He had his Glock, but that wouldn't be much good if angels showed up. Neither would knives of demonic origin, or fists. They could do banishing sigils, and Castiel seemed very sure of the marks he'd put on the walls -- quick strokes of curves and lines, some interlocking, or caught within circles. The colors of the marks were dulled in the shadows but they looked like a faded red. Dean wondered if Castiel had made them from his own blood--the freaky little nerd probably had.

"Okay, you're set." Sam rolled up the excess gauze, putting the first aid tools away neatly into the box.

Dean watched the assured movement of his brother's hands, the way he seemed taller and wider in the shoulders than he'd been even last year, when the shock of the difference in how Sam had changed, after Dean being away (away, yeah, that worked, a lot better than _when he was in hell_ ). There was a quietness to Sam these days, replacing the determined energy of the year they'd spent with Dean's deal hanging over them, or the different mood that had rolled off Sam leading up to when he'd killed Lilith, frenetic and always with his mind halfway to somewhere else.

When Sam closed the lid of the first aid kit, Castiel tucked his shirt back into place and got to his feet smoothly, without waiting for an offer of help. Typical.

"What now?" Dean said, fantasizing about torching winged assholes in corporate wear with holy fire.

Castiel raised his head to meet Dean's gaze. "Now, nothing."

"Nothing?" That was weirdly anti-climactic, after all the urgency and the blood, Castiel's grace seeping out of him. "Whaddya mean noth--"

"You've both done what I required. I needed immediate assistance, but you can go now. I'll wait here until I've fully recovered."

Sam's forehead wrinkled up and he ran a hand through his hair. "Um, really?"

Cas was still too pale, breathing a little too fast, as if he were in pain and trying not to be. Dean knew those kinds of tells like he knew all the lyrics on _Zeppelin II._

"Really," said Cas.

"Because we could --" Sam started, then glanced at Dean, a little helplessly, as if Dean was the Castiel expert.

"Y'know..." Dean wasn't sure if this was the right thing to say or not, but he was still on edge, and if he was completely honest he didn't _want_ to leave Cas right then. "Me and Sam don't really have anywhere else we have to be this second." He glanced at Sam, who gave Dean a look of such understanding back it was embarrassing. Dean tried not to think of any further incidents that could happen at the school before they got there. "So if you wanted, uh, we could wait with you." He shrugged. "I mean, won't it get boring if you just sit here by yourself?"

"No," Castiel said, flat and direct. But his shoulders sagged a little and the line of his mouth softened a fraction. "However, the company would be welcome."

The hint of relief in his voice was faint, but Dean caught it.

* * *

Sam sat with his back against a stall door, Dean near him, their shoulders inches from each other. The stillness in the barn gave Sam too much room inside his own head, without his laptop or books or the rumble of the Impala's engine to drive it out. He almost wished Dean and Cas would start bickering, instead of the quiet, furtive stares they were doing at each other now, as if Dean didn't want to be caught checking up on Castiel and Castiel didn't want to be caught noticing Dean doing it. Sam bit his lip so he wouldn't start laughing.

At first Castiel seemed content to remain standing, shoulders stiff as if he was on sentry duty. Sam started choosing the best words to get him to sit down and rest, but Dean had his own approach.

"Yo, Cas, sit down again already." Dean's hand flapped in a lazy way. "It's making me tired just looking at you."

Castiel only hesitated a moment before he walked over and sat down slowly next to Dean, imitating Dean and Sam's positions as they leaned against the old wood.

"So you want to tell us what happened, exactly?" Dean asked quietly.

"I got into an altercation with five of my brothers and sisters."

"Hope they look worse than you right now," Dean joked.

Castiel answered, voice flat and rough, "Three of them are dead."

"I'm sorry," Sam said quietly. He drew up his knees, wrapping his fingers around them, against the ache behind Castiel's voice.

"If they could've managed it, I'd be dead too." He tugged at the edge of his trenchcoat, drawing it up over his leg, fidgeting Sam would've thought, if it was anyone but Castiel. "I'm not used to drawing this kind of attention from the heavenly host," Castiel added, a touch self-effacing, a little wry. "They aren't pleased I've chosen to go rogue, and ally myself with humans."

"Rogue. Yeah." The smile Dean offered had a touch of pride and a touch of danger -- sometimes he was so much that kid in high school who had access to cigarettes and weed and knew how to cut class without getting caught and every girl had a crush on -- but Sam heard the bitter edge. "Well. You know how it is, you start hanging with a bad crowd, someone's bound to notice."

"I don't regret my choices," Castiel said, and Sam thought he sounded a little exasperated. As if he thought this should be self-evident to Dean, but Sam wasn't sure how Dean was supposed to know that of course Castiel had no regrets about sticking with them, picking the underdogs and the trouble-makers. Sam remembered Castiel being very emphatic about the fact that Sam and Dean had screwed up.

Dean twisted his watch on his wrist, keeping his eyes down, and Sam thought about Dean not leaving, even when he could barely look at Sam. It was always Sam's idea to go, and Dean who always took him back.

"Thanks, Cas," Sam said. "We appreciate what you're doing. Really."

Being caught in the full bulls-eye of Castiel's stare was never an average experience, and Sam never knew if Castiel would get what he was saying immediately, or they'd have another round of Sam searching for better words. But after a few seconds, the corner of Castiel's mouth lifted a little. He gave a tiny little nod.

* * *

Resting this way was not something Castiel was accustomed to, and he disliked it. His wounds had weakened him, but it should've been merely a question of time, of waiting. Stillness should've been enough, yet Castiel found it easier to sit. Also it seemed to bother Dean to have Castiel standing up -- one more thing that was puzzling about Dean. A part of Castiel understood, from observation, and the possible reason for it made the hurt from his injuries a little less, and created an odd, warm feeling in his chest he couldn't identify.

The slowness of earth time pressed on him, the impatience of being caught inside a shell of muscle and hard bone and skin. After a while Sam and Dean started talking about the case they'd been on their way to when Castiel had turned them from their task. They argued over details and what they might mean. There were several victims already dead.

"It won't be much longer," Castiel said. "You can be on your way soon."

"Yeah, Cas, we know," Sam said, but he sounded far too patient.

"But I don't want you to—"

"Castiel, shut your pie hole, okay?" Dean's level of annoyance seemed uncalled for. "We're not leaving yet, so chill."

There was a list of intangible rules, and Castiel seemed to keep transgressing against them, yet no one would explain them to him fully. He thought Dean's irritability might be connected to why it annoyed Dean to have Castiel standing up while he was injured.

* * *

After sitting for a while, Dean's muscles needed to move. He hoped the Impala was okay, that some asshole hadn't decided to steal her or jack the tires. Maybe he could hike out to her, and hike back, if she was close enough. Maybe Castiel was recovered enough to zap Dean there, just for a half a minute. Dean pushed away the dip of unease in his stomach when he thought about how ragged Castiel still looked, the blood-stains on his shirt.

He pushed himself to his feet, hands against the rough wood of the stall door, while Sam finished explaining how to play "20 questions" to Cas.

The angel sat with his head leaning back against the door, shoulders sagged. Maybe Dean wouldn't ask just yet for the quick trip to the car. Another twenty minutes, maybe then. Dean started to pace again, walking the length of the barn, poking around into the corners, where he found a rusty shovel, a bale of hay that smelled funny, and a John Deere that looked like it hadn't been started up in twenty years. A rat scurried along the base of the wall and Dean twitched. Not that he was scared of rats, they were just kind of disgusting. He went back over to Sam and Cas, sat down again and listened to the game.

"Is it smaller than an apple?" Castiel asked.

"No."

"Is it edible?"

"No."

This went on for a while. Dean folded his arms across his chest, leaned sideways against the side of the stall, and dozed. He listened to the cadences of their distinct voices, noting Castiel's growing sharper and more frustrated while Sam's took on a bubble of amusement beneath the patient surface. Competitive jackass, he always loved to win, every game since they were little, from I Spy to Monopoly to Spit. Dean wished they had a deck of cards so they could teach Castiel poker -- Sam was terrible at poker, most of the time at least, and Dean was curious whether Cas would be awesome at it or not. That could really go either way with his grim, inscrutable faces, yet then there were moments when he telegraphed like crazy.

He startled awake to see the moon had disappeared out of view, the barn gone darker and colder, wind rattling at the roof and walls. Sam and Castiel's voices had gone a little louder, on the edge of an argument over some philosopher dude who'd been dead for a few thousand years.

The wind picked up, tearing away at a hole in the wall, high up near the roof, and Dean was right back in that barn two years ago, the wind shaking the whole building, sigils all over the walls.

"Son of a bitch," Dean said, and he was on his feet, pulling out his Glock and feeling stupid because that really wouldn't be a help.

"Dean?" Sam got up too and was at Dean's shoulder, voice low and urgent. Castiel remained seated, head tilted as he listened to something Dean and Sam couldn't hear.

"Angels," Dean said.

"It's not angels," Castiel said calmly.

"How do you know?"

Castiel gave Dean a look.

"Can you be completely sure?" Yeah, Dean had learned even the very best could get it wrong, and he'd be damned if he would let them all get caught out unprepared. "I mean, we all know you're Mr. Fantastic and can hear at special angel frequencies and all that, but angels are sneaky bastards, maybe they found a way past your hiding sigils."

"I'm sure, Dean," Castiel said, a dry note of warning creeping into his voice, but he was on his feet now with a smooth motion and striding over to face Dean. There was still stiffness in his movements: he was trying too hard to do the walk of don't-fuck-with-me.

"A good hunter never assumes anything," Dean said, his Glock a good weight in his hand.

Sometimes it was like Castiel's glare could burn right to the back of his brain.

The wind gusted louder, whistling through the cracks in the walls, banging away at the roof. The hairs on the back of Dean's neck and his lower arms stood up in ways that usually only happened before spirits showed up -- he'd always had sort of a sixth sense for that.

"I believe I know more about this than you do." Castiel's jaw went tight, his gaze locked on Dean's face.

"Guys." Sam moved between them. "Can't hurt to be sure, right?" He said to Castiel. "We could try to be ready in case."

"There is not much more to do in terms of readiness, and it can't possibly be angels anyway. The sigils on the walls should protect me from the view of the heavenly host, and the ones I carved onto your ribs make you undetectable as well."

"Cas," Dean said, and Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, he was stubborn, and not as powerful as when they'd first met, although Dean didn't like how that idea nested in his head, what it meant that Castiel could bleed and wouldn't be fine six minutes later.

Castiel's glare faltered and at the next gust of wind his gaze flickered upwards towards the fragile roof.

"All right," Castiel said finally. He twitched his fingers, deftly changing his grip on the angel blade. "The two of you need to leave." He held up his free hand, reaching for Sam's forehead.

Sam darted back out of reach. "What?"

"If it is my brothers and sisters, you need to go, _now._ Unless you want them to turn Sam to ashes and drag Dean before Zachariah." He reached for Dean, who also ducked away.

Castiel made a face like he wanted to start cursing. Dean thought maybe he'd start doing it for him.

"You're not exactly the Energizer Bunny right now," Dean argued. "You can't fight them. Maybe we can help you think of something. Shouldn't we all blow this popsicle stand?" When Castiel looked blank at that, Dean added, "what if you transported us all out of here?"

"I'll be even more vulnerable outside the protection of the sigils than I am here. They are functioning, even if maybe the host has found a way past their main protections. I can feel it."

"Shit," said Sam, and drew his gun.

"Can you make another sigil?" Dean gestured at the walls. "You got any more of those angel knives on you?"

"No, I've made them all already, and no. Dean, you and Sam need to--"

"You stupid son of a bitch, we're not--"

The wind quieted, and died. Castiel's angel blade glinted, catching a hint of moonlight as the clouds thinned.

"Um..." Sam said.

They were in a rough triangle, the three of them almost back to back. Sam lowered his gun. Dean kept his raised, while Castiel did the same with his blade, his body in the ready stance, one foot forward.

After a moment Castiel lowered his knife.

"It doesn't appear we're under attack after all," Castiel said, and Dean wasn't sure, but he sounded _amused_. Like he thought this was godamned hilarious. Just a flicker, for a moment, but Dean decided Castiel didn't have enough of a sense of humor for that.

Dean lowered his gun, making his breaths go steady and even to slow the race of his heart.

"You should see the look on your faces," Sam said, tucking his gun away into his jacket, and now the twerp was visibly fighting not to laugh.

"Oh yeah, ha ha, it's very funny." Dean slid into sarcasm, easy as sliding into the Impala, as he put his gun away. "It could've been angels, Sam."

"I know, Dean," Sam said, making a very serious face and putting his hand on Dean's shoulder.

The jab he gave Sam to the stomach was light and quick, and Sam let out a startled yelp before he started laughing outright.

"I'm better now," Castiel said. "I should go."

Dean turned to face him, wondering if his bullshit meter should be ticking. "Are you--"

Then Castiel's hands went up too fast for them to dodge, one reaching for Sam's forehead, one for Dean's.

* * *

Sam felt the push of Castiel's fingers against his forehead and then he blinked, inhaling clear, cold air instead of the mustiness of the barn. A quick moment of vertigo made him stagger.

He and Dean were in a field under the night sky, the Impala a few feet away.

"Cas?" Dean shouted, his voice echoing back to them across the fields.

Sam turned in a circle. "I can't see him." It was funny how easy it was to worry about Castiel.

"Cas!" Dean yelled more sharply. There was no answer. "Typical," Dean muttered, striding over to the Impala. "Friggin' angels."

As Dean opened the driver's side door with a creak of hinges, Sam said, "I'm sure he's okay, Dean."

"What? Oh. Yeah." Dean got into the car.

* * *

Castiel watched them drive away. Sam and Dean Winchester were two of the most infuriating, stubborn individuals Castiel had ever met.

He was very glad they'd waited with him.

~end


End file.
